


A Dream - Out of the Water

by FlannelEpicurean



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannigram - Freeform, this dream i had
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 16:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12730128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlannelEpicurean/pseuds/FlannelEpicurean
Summary: Based on a dream I had.





	A Dream - Out of the Water

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a dream I had.

“I need you to breathe for me, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, trailing his thumb through the droplets of water caught in the stubble on Will’s cheek. Dark, sodden curls cling to Will’s forehead. Hannibal’s fingers smooth them back, slip through them, lovingly make their way down to the base of Will’s skull, and come to rest, with gentle pressure, on the back of Will’s neck. 

The motion tips Will’s head back slightly. His lips part as if waiting for a kiss. His eyes remain stubbornly closed. 

“In the water,” Hannibal says, “you fought so hard. So fiercely.” He remembers Will lunging at him, their limbs tangling. Will’s arms locked around him, the muscle hard as steel cable. Will’s legs pumping like pistons, seeking purchase. Will’s hand like a vise at his throat. Such a beautiful machine, in the water. But now, on the land, nothing but flesh and mud. 

There is a puddle of water trapped in the hollow at the base of Will’s throat. Hannibal dips his finger into it and traces a line down Will’s chest, stopping at the opening of his shirt - much lower now that several buttons have been ripped away. Hannibal’s hand spreads and comes to rest over Will’s heart. The skin there is chilly, the pulse weak. He is running out of time. 

“You are so cold,” Hannibal says, as if to himself. Then his fingers seize the front of Will’s ruined shirt, wringing water that dribbles down his wrist. “Fight!” he commands. “Fight for me!”

But Will remains pallid and still.

Hannibal untangles his hands from Will’s body and runs them through his own dripping hair. There is no command, no amount of pushing, that will bring back the dreadful, beautiful machine in the water. He will have to settle for flesh and mud. 

Hannibal runs his fingers through Will’s curls again, less gently this time, and tips his head back. He bends over, his face nearly touching Will’s and contemplates him for a moment. Even now, even like this, even as a pale, wet heap of flesh and mud, there is some beauty. The curve of his lashes. The sharpness of his cheeks. The expression on his face - as though he is on the verge of figuring out an important truth. The slight furrow of his brow. The light tension around his mouth. 

Hannibal permits himself a small smile. He takes a deep breath. Pinches Will’s nose shut. Lowers his mouth over Will’s and presses it there. Pauses. Feels, for a moment, his own heartbeat. And then he breathes out. 

Will jerks and sputters on the first breath. Hannibal turns him over onto his side, rubs his shoulders as he vomits up water and claws breath back into his lungs. He sits there in the mud, feeling the spasms judder across Will’s back as he begins to breathe, and then shiver. 

Hannibal leans over Will, presses his cheek to Will’s wet hair, wraps an arm around Will’s heaving chest. “Breathe,” he coaxes. Will clings to his arm. “Just breathe.”

For a time there is no sound but Will’s ragged gasping, and the chop of water against the mud. A distant bird calls out. Another answers it. Hannibal savors the feeling of Will’s body against his, the slow creep of warmth building between them.

But then Will explodes into motion, scrambling away on hands and knees, kicking up mud as he gains purchase, loses it, falls on his side, rolls himself into a sitting position and turns to face Hannibal. 

Hannibal remains still and serene, reclining as though at an emperor’s table and not on a filthy mudbank. He regards Will with some measure of amusement and asks, “Are you going to try to kill me again?”

Will’s mouth, still gasping for breath, does not answer. But his eyes go hard. His pulse pounds fast and frantic as he readies himself to fight for his life. But something in Hannibal’s smile takes him aback. He squints, unbelieving. There is still something predatory, something sharp and wicked, about Hannibal. There is something of blood and blade in that smile. But there is something far different in his eyes. Something that frightens Will even more. 

It is love.


End file.
